


To be Humanitarian

by BladesAndSwords



Category: Dark Souls I, Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BladesAndSwords/pseuds/BladesAndSwords
Summary: Two-shot about Smough, the last knight guarding the cathedral of Anor Londo.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 21





	1. The last knight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> Here's a Smough two-shot! Smough was not one of my favorite characters at all during DS 1, but after DS 3, my perspective of him changed quite a bit, so I felt inspired to write a fic about him.
> 
> I hope you all like it!

“You’re not a true knight.” The wolf knight did enjoy ruining his meals with his disdainful and unwanted statements. His beloved flea-ridden beast echoed his master’s words with a threatening growl. “You’re nothing but an embarrassment.”

Their impertinence would have passed ignored had it not embittered the food in his mouth. It was an offense Smough could not allow to go unpunished. He put down the powdered piece of meat and cleaned the gravy streaming from the corner of his mouth with a swift swipe of his thumb.

He stood up, his belly slightly pushing the table. Artorias did not flinch when Smough’s eyes met his challenging glare. He always looked at him with so much hatred, the wolf knight.

It was a trait common in all the members of the knights of Gwyn, except for Ornstein.

Smough was used to disapproval. He found it amusing, but he did not appreciate it.

Not at all.

Artorias was about to tell him some other of his pitiful insults, but Smough shut him up before he could take the breath to pronounce the words.

There was no need to harm him directly to keep that mouth of his shut, not when Sif was nearby. The wolf whimpered like an injured pup when Smough’s fist crashed against his snout. The animal left the floor, and his violent flight only met an end when he hit a wall.

Artorias’ anguished expression filled Smough’s heart with joy and made him smile. His smile only got wider as he watched the wolf knight run to his injured pet’s side. 

“I’m eating.” Smough told Artorias, sitting down again in front of the table and stabbing his unfinished piece of meat with a knife. “Go away.”

He finished the rest of his meal in a single bite. He wished he had more time to enjoy it, but he would need the knife for what would follow.

Smough closed his eyes when he heard Artorias’ steps behind him.

He was so predictable, the wolf knight.

A savage beast, just like his beloved mutt.

_Oh well._

Smough steadied his hold on the knife.

_This was inevitable, in retrospect._

He waited for a second before turning around.

_Your bones shall be a nice condiment for my next meal._

“Stop!”

A golden lance avoided any contact between Artorias’ dagger and Smough’s knife.

Artorias backed away with a jump.

Smough remained comfortably sitting on his chair, unimpressed by Ornstein’s interference.

“Have you two lost your minds?” Ornstein demanded, his voice breaming with authority, his spear gently shining with the power of lightning. His back was turned on Smough.

He thought of stabbing the kitchen knife on Ornstein’s neck, but he refused the idea quickly.

His appetite was officially ruined, and the least he wanted after an unsatisfactory meal was to deal with the consequences of hurting the firstborn’s favorite knight and companion.

_My disappointment knows no bounds._

Smough sighed and stood up, firmly decided to leave the dining hall and retire to his quarters. If he had been denied of a peaceful and enjoyable meal, he at least would have a comforting and peaceful nap afterwards.

“You’re not going anywhere, Smough.” Ornstein said, blocking his way with his lighting spear and standing next to Smough. “Not until you and Artorias have made peace.”

Smough looked at Ornstein.

Was it all a jest or was he serious?

“Are you my mother, Ornstein?”

“What?”

Smough grinned at his reaction. There was something so entertaining about watching such a stupid expression marked on the always serious features of Ornstein.

“Are you my mother? Did you carry me in your womb and then birthed me?”

Ornstein said nothing, just as Smough had expected.

“The correct answer is no; and from what I know, you didn’t birth Artorias either, so I don’t see what makes you think you can order us around as if we were your children.”

“Do not forget who you are talking to, Smough.” Ornstein recovered his unyielding tone, his spear not moving an inch from where it stood. “I’m the leader of the knights of Gwyn. I may not have birthed either of you, but I am your superior, and I will not allow this kind of petty and childish displays among my subordinates. I don’t care what ignited this pathetic fight of yours, but you’ll end it right now; the least we need is for this ridiculous incident to fester and transform into murderous enmity.”

“Talk to Artorias, then. I was peacefully enjoying my meal when he and his mutt provoked me without reason; I merely reacted to their taunts. I am not at fault here, Ornstein.”

Ornstein looked at Smough with suspicion for a moment.

How predictable, how easy it was to regard Smough as the villain of every situation. Granted, he was prone to making the offenders pay for their insolence with their lives, or at least with a limb or two, but it wasn’t his fault others felt the constant need to provoke his anger.

It was a dreadful injustice, one that Smough had long gotten used to. He had never been treated any different, and he knew that would never change.

“Artorias, is this true?” Ornstein looked now at the wolf knight. Smough did the same.

Artorias met their gaze as he caressed Sif’s head. The pup whimpered on his master’s lap, his bleeding snout swollen right there where Smough had hit him.

_Nice punch._

Smough praised himself, admiring his work with pride.

“I only said what’s true, Ornstein.” Artorias replied, completely unashamed or repentant.

What a pity. Had he showed remorse for his actions, Smough would have not forgiven him anyway, but it still would have been nice to see the wolf knight accept his fault.

“Smough is an insult to knighthood itself, and I shall no longer remain quiet about it. He is not worthy of the title... he never will be!”

“Enough, Artorias! You are free to have your opinion of Smough, but these outbursts are below a knight of Gwyn such as yourself.”

“Listen to Ornstein, wolf boy.” Smough added, a friendly and peaceful smile on his lips; a smile he gifted to Artorias with pity and condescendense. “For who knows what will happen to your dear Sif if you ever dare to interrupt one of my meals again. Wolf meat does not sound appetizing, but I’m not a picky eater. Not in the slightest.”

Smough swatted Ornstein’s spear out of his way as if it was an annoying fly. The so-called and very dignified leader of he knights of Gwyn tried to stop him, but thankfully, Artorias made sure to keep him busy with another of his outbursts.

Smough did not look behind, and he left Ornstein to deal with that mess all by himself.

There would be some consequences from their small scene, but Smough could hardly care. No one had gotten hurt, except for that stupid wolf, and even that injury would heal eventually, though it would take some time before Sif could chew on bones without his jaw hurting and cracking.

“He brought it upon himself.” Smough said. He took out a bag full of pulverized bones and dipped one of his fingers inside. He took it out and licked his powdered digit with delight.

The taste brought peace to his agitated spirit.

His latest victim was indeed tasteful.

The execution had been as sweet as the bones themselves.

“They all do.”

* * *

“I should have known the title was above you.”

Lord Gwyn’s voice absorbed every other sound in the room. Even Smough’s crazed heartbeats paled in comparison, as if they were swallowed by it.

He felt small, defenseless.

And humiliated.

“You’ve disappointed me, Smough. I had hoped that by granting you knighthood, you’d learn to keep those despicable instincts of yours in check, but it only made you more savage, crueler. It’s a shame, for I truly believed you’d see reason and become your best self. In time, you could have become one of my knights. How wrong I was.”

Lord Gwyn extended his arm. Smough sunk deeper into the floor, his knees numb with rigidity, his forehead touching the cold marble floor as tiny beads of sweat formed a puddle under his skin.

“You are a knight no more.” Lord Gwyn spoke, his voice rising to the very heavens. “An executioner you shall be forever, and nothing more. This is the fate I cast eternally upon you, Smough.”

* * *

“Everyone’s gone. You are the only one who remains.”

Lord Gwyndolin said from behind the misty veil.

Kneeling before his unseen figure filled Smough with peace and fulfillment. Smough had never thought much of the boy or his siblings, not even of the traitorous firstborn, the lover of dragons.

They were all young gods, bred by their father to fulfill his will even after his departure from Anor Londo. They were Gwyn's heirs, his blood.

His prisoners.

Yet, Smough did not pity them.

He had never comprehended such sentiment. He knew the definition and had seen it practiced thousands of times by the pathetic knights of Gwyn, but he had yet to experience it in his own flesh.

But he understood their fate was cursed, as was his own. Lord Gwyn had shaped their existences, and created a bond between his children and the executioner as a result.

Smough did not know what to call it, or if it was only an illusion born from years of almost complete solitude, but it wasn’t a bad sensation.

Not at all.

“My father banished you from the knights for all time. He deemed your actions vile and your spirit impure.”

Smough kept his head down.

Lord Gwyndolin was more akin to his father than the traitorous firstborn had ever been.

Smough doubted Gwyn had ever noticed or cared about this trait of his frail third child.

“The four knights thought the same about you. Ornstein spoke in your favor at times, but even he remained quiet when Artorias spoke of your crimes and vices. You were loved by none and despised by all, executioner Smough, specially by those whom you always tried to impress.”

Smough had seldom felt pain in his life. His skin and bones were abnormally tough, and his heart and mind were mazes that made little sense even to himself.

Dragons had made him flinch with their fire breaths.

Abominations born from the dark had made him grunt in discomfort.

The knights of Gwyn had inflicted some scratches on his flesh during their occasional confrontations.

Lord Gwyn had stripped him from his dignity along with his fleeting knighthood.

But no one had come closer to leave Smough as exposed as Lord Gwyndolin had done.

It was ridiculous.

How could this feeble and small god have reached him?

How could he understand him?

_Because... we are the same. Is this true, my Lord?_

Smough raised his head and saw Lord Gwyndolin’s arm traverse the misty veil. The soft and godly palm rested against his rough forehead, cleansing Smough’s from all his confusion and bewilderment.

“But you’re still here, dutifully protecting my sister and myself. That alone is all the proof I need to know my father was wrong about you.”

A brief glimmer of light blinded Smough. When his sight returned, nothing had changed.

Except that it had.

“Rise, sir Smough.” Lord Gwyndolin commanded, his hand slowly retreating behind the safety and privacy of the veil. “Royal Warrior of Gwyndolin. Loyal Protector of lady Gwynevere.”

Smough did as he was ordered, and for the first time, he did so with honor.

He did so with pride.

“Last knight of Anor Londo.”

* * *

_This is my duty._

Smough, clad in his beloved armor, looked at the newcomer. Just another deluded and pitiful Undead desperate to reach the sanctuary of his lady Gwynevere.

Smough would kill him, as he had done with the many others that had come before, and then he would eat his bones as proof of his worth as a knight.

Ornstein joined him. Smough detested the replica, and often wondered why Lord Gwyndolin had bothered with creating it in the first place.

Smough did not need no one’s help, specially not that of the shadow of the traitorous Dragon slayer.

_Oh well, if it gets in my way, I’ll just kill it and absorb its power. Business as usual._

A sated chuckled escaped Smough as he readied his gigantic hammer for the bloody fight that was about to unfold before him.

_I am a knight. I’m twice the knight any of you ever were._

The puny Undead wielded his weapons. He was accompanied by a Warrior of Sunlight.

Smough cared not. It did not matter how many of those disgusting creatures confronted him at the same time, the result would always be the same.

_I’m sir Smough, the last of the knights of Anor Londo! Do you hear me, Gough? Can you listen to me, Ciaran? Do you see me, Artorias?_

The battle started. Blood and vigor blinded Smough with the excitement and bloodlust of battle that gave meaning to his life.

And now, thanks to lord Gwyndolin, there was a new layer.

It had a name.

_You all were wrong about me, Ornstein! Lord Gwyn! I am a knight. The last knight of Anor Londo!  
_

It was purpose.


	2. The Illusion ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys! Thanks to everyone reading and for all the kudos :D  
> Also thanks to Redfox13 and Mrs Littletall for the comments!
> 
> I had a bit of trouble writing this chapter, mostly because I did not know how I could introduce Sulyvahn and especially Yorshka, but Mrs Littletall helped me with this.  
> She told me her theory about Yorshka's origin and I loved it, so I asked her if I could use it for the fic and she agreed :) So all the credit about it goes to Mrs Littletall!  
> Thanks a lot for all the help, friend! 
> 
> I hope you like the chapter!

_How could this happen?_

It was over.

He had lost.

_How can this be?_

He had failed.

_Lady Gwynevere._

The two Undead stared at him, their faces hidden underneath their helmets.

Smough could sense them, their victorious gazes looking down on his crushed body, pathetically lying on the marble floor.

Their swords, lacquered with his blood, loomed over him like vultures.

Smough felt no fear.

Death had never scared him.

If something filled his soul with shame and regret, it was defeat; his ridiculous and undignified defeat at the hands of two cursed walking corpses. He would have never thought death would take him in such humiliating manner.

But there was nothing he could do.

His body was broken. Not even the essence and power of Ornstein’s replica had done much to heal his wounds.

_Ornstein._

The memory of the lion knight paused Smough’s musings about his own tragic end.

What fate had Ornstein met after he had left Anor Londo behind?

Had he perished like a dog on an empty wasteland, or had he succeeded in his quest and was now by his beloved lord’s side?

It didn’t matter.

Whatever fate had fallen upon him, it could not be near as horrific as Smough’s.

_I am a knight._

Smough relaxed his limbs, his tense fingers finally departing from his giant hammer’s handle.

_The last knight of Anor Londo._

He waited in brave silence for either of the two Undead to deliver the killing blow that would put an end to his life once and for all.

_And I shall die as such._

Fate mocked him again with another of her cruel and capricious twists.

The two Undead, one a follower of the traitorous firstborn’s covenant, and the other clad in Astoran armor, sheathed their swords and left Smough behind.

For a moment, Smough did no comprehend he was still alive. The echo of the elevator’s mechanism brought him back to full awareness of himself and his surroundings.

And with it, came the realization of the offense those two godforsaken Undead had committed against him.

They had shown him pity.

They had spared his life.

Smough’s rage increased with every beat of his heart.

_What’s the matter? Are my flesh and soul not good enough nourishment for your swords?_

He tried to speak aloud his thoughts, but his throat sent out a rush of blood instead. It clashed against the inner surface of his helmet. Both the impact and gravity brought the blood down to his face with a warm splash.

_Am I not good enough for you?_

He tried to force his body up. His arms faltered and his back hit the floor with a wet crash.

It was then he realized how much of his blood laid underneath him, forming a gigantic crimson puddle that framed his entire body.

The faint warmth of his blood was of no comfort as another realization became clear.

The two Undead knights had not spared his life.

They had left him to die from his wounds, either out of a twisted need to prolong Smough’s suffering and humiliation, or in a stupid and lofty display of moral superiority.

Smough did not find either of the options superior above the other.

_Disgusting creatures._

His eyelids started to come down against his will.

Fury and hate would be the last two sentiments he would feel before his reality faded to everlasting darkness.

Fury and hate were the only thing the world had ever given to him.

Smough had given the world nothing but fury and hate in return.

It was fitting they were his only two companions now that his life had come to an unworthy end.

* * *

“Raise, sir Smough.”

The order pierced the darkness that had consumed him.

Smough obeyed the command and saw before him the slender figure of lord Gwyndolin.

It was a rare sight, one Smough had not seen ever since the hermit god had retreated behind the safety and privacy of the veil.

Lord Gwyndolin had not changed at all, and had Smough not been so stunned and incredulous by having awakened again into existence, he would have allowed himself to show more respect for the deity he had served so dutifully.

“I have healed your body. Your life is not in danger anymore.” Gwyndolin explained, highly flustered at having Smough looking at him so directly. Yet, his dignified aura and posture did not falter. “Do not fear, sir Smough. You did not fail in your duty, for you did well in testing the worth and strength of the Undead that defeated you; the same Undead that has now become the Chosen One I and Frampt have waited for so long.”

“Why?” Smough inquired.

Lord Gwyndolin was no fool.

He knew very well what Smough’s question demanded of him.

Smough, stripped of his armor and hammer as he was, still possessed an inherent intimidating essence, and not even the gods were immune to it.

The small god remained trapped in silence.

Smough, slowly getting back on his feet, repeated the question as his gigantic shadow devoured Gwyndolin.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“It was not a lie, sir Smough.” Gwyndolin’s used his lower body, made of dozens of snakes, to pull himself up until his height was no different than Smough’s. “It was an illusion. I did what I had to do, for my own honor and my father’s legacy.”

_Sir Smough._

The title sounded beyond ridiculous. Smough could not believe the pride he had felt when Gwyndolin had first bestowed it upon him.

“Lady Gwynevere was an illusion too, wasn’t she?”

Smough had suspected it for a long time. In the few occasions he had been allowed into the princess’ chamber, the goddess had been kind and grateful to him.

Too kind and grateful to be true.

Lady Gwynevere had never been a goddess known for her ill manners or disdainful temperament, but she was far from being the absolute benevolent being Smough had met behind closed doors.

He had known all this time.

From the darkest depths of his heart, Smough had always known she was nothing more than a convincing illusion, but he had chosen to ignore his instincts and intuition.

So what if his lady was fake?

He still found satisfaction in her gentle smiles, her pure words and in his duty as a knight to keep her safe from cursed interlopers.

It was all Smough needed to be content, but now that the illusion was about to shatter, Smough could see what a blind fool he had been.

“Yes.” Gwyndolin answered. “She left Anor Londo long ago. What you’ve been guarding is –”

“Nothing but a shadow.”

Smough turned his back on the god. He put his armor back on and picked up his trusted hammer. He walked towards the veiled entrance at the other end of the long corridor, but when he tried to move his feet, they did not answer to his commands.

Lord Gwyndolin spoke to him again, with a voice so soft that it almost brought Smough to his knees.

“You are free to leave Anor Londo if you desire, Smough. You have served me well, and I have not been fair in my treatment towards you. I find no pride in my deceit, but neither do I regret it. I did what had to be done; and now, you are free to do as you wish. It truly is the least you deserve after all the loyalty and dutifulness you have showed me and my family.”

Smough stood still.

He gave Gwyndolin no answer, and merely walked in silence towards the entrance.

Once outside the forbidden chamber of the god, Smough wandered aimlessly across the place he had once thought was under his absolute protection, the sanctuary he had kept safe long after the feeble and traitorous knights of Gwyn had failed in their duties.

After what felt like an eternity, he found himself in a wide and empty chamber, one close to the exit of Anor Londo.

A chamber where the statues of the four knights and the firstborn looked down at him, just as the Undead and his Sunlight comrade had done.

The knights continued to humiliate him with their eyes of stone even in their lifeless forms.

Smough would not allow it.

He held his hammer and smashed the statues one by one.

First, he destroyed Gough, whom he had always hated for his meekness and fondness for meaningless pastimes.

Then, he vanquished Ciaran, the pitiful assassin that had succumbed to grief like some love-stricken maiden from a poem.

He then went after Artorias, the stupid fool that had confronted the Abyss, only to be corrupted by it. Smough destroyed his statue together with that of Sif, his faithful mutt that even now remained by his master’s side.

Finally, he saved the last and most fervent shreds of his anger for Ornstein. The condescending and holier-than-thou dragon slayer, the traitorous leader of the knights, the lapdog of the firstborn, the same knight that had forsaken his duties to go after his lost master.

The only one among the knights that had showed Smough any kindness; a deed that made him the most deserving of his fury.

The hammer turned the statute into crumble in the matter of a few hits, but its total destruction was not enough to quench Smough’s need for chaos and payback. He continued attacking until his shoulders burned with exhausting and the wall behind the statue succumbed to his unleashed violence.

The wall of stone fell apart and revealed a beautiful view of Anor Londo and its wonderous, ever shining sun.

Smough stared at the burning star. The sunlight kissed his armor.

His wrath abandoned him as abruptly as it had taken control of his mind and body.

Smough finally collapsed to his knees and removed his helmet, but the sun above him was a frivolous star that had no warmth to offer.

It was an illusion, just like his duty as a knight had been.

Yet, despite everything, it did shine gorgeously upon the only home Smough had ever known, and if he was willing to ignore its true nature, it looked no less real than the sun that had once shone in the sky during Gwyn’s age of fire.

It was a poor comfort, a pathetic attempt to excuse the deceit of its creation; but it was still a sun, and Anor Londo was still the home of a god.

It was the best scenario Smough would ever get, for if he left Anor Londo behind, where would he go?

He had no pastimes to lose himself in, no loved ones to mourn, no duty to fulfill, no grave to guard and no lord to go after.

Outside Anor Londo, he had nothing.

In Anor Londo, he had only illusions.

_But I’m still alive._

Smough kept looking at the sun for a long while. Then, he put his helmet back on and, with renewed spirits, he made his choice.

Behind him, he left only broken stone resting on a cold and empty room.

* * *

Gwyndolin said nothing about his return.

Smough did the same.

He wondered if the god was ashamed of what he had done to him, or if he merely deemed the whole thing unworthy of any more of his time.

Smough could not know.

Gods were not always logical in their behavior.

Then again, neither was he.

And so, Smough remained by Gwyndolin’s side, and if there was anything left either him or Gwyndolin wanted to express about what had happened, it was never said.

* * *

It happened suddenly one day.

Gwyndolin returned to Anor Londo with an unhatched egg, probably one of a dragon’s, but it was not like one Smough had ever seen.

After forcing his memory, he discovered he was wrong.

The egg was identical to the one from which the hated crossbred had once hatched.

What had been her name?

Priscilla, if Smough was not mistaken.

Was she still secluded in her little world of lies behind the magic painting?

Smough did not know, and he did not care. He had not hated the little freak, but she had never meant anything to him either.

She was just another of Gwyn’s shameful failures, cursed to be isolated from the world and forgotten by history.

She was meant to be irrelevant, and yet, there she was, still existing in some shape.

“We abominations are hard to kill, are we not?” Smough told Gwyndolin without any shame or sense of respect.

The formalities had long been dropped between them.

Gwyndolin had seldom encouraged Smough to improve his language while addressing him, and Smough had no intention of chaning his behavior towards the puny god.

“No matter how close we are to death or how much others despise us, we always find a way to cling to our meaningless existences. That crossbred was no different, it seems. So, how did she do it? Did she find a way to rejuvenate herself back to this state? What a waste; if she was so eager to end her life, she should have forwarded her time until she turned to ash and dust. Now, she has condemned herself to be born again, back into a new and worthless life... Idiot girl.”

“Halt your tongue, Smough!” Gwyndolin ordered, his moonlight power manifesting in the form of magic threads that threatened to strike Smough, but Smough was all too used to the god’s feints to be intimidated by his display. It was all really amusing, to say the least. “You know not what you are saying, and I shall not let you disrespect Priscilla’s memory with your impudent and heartless words.”

“Memory? Is she dead, then?” Smough inquired, a sly smile appearing on the corner of his mouth. He moved his eyes from Gwyndolin’s face to the egg he clutched to his chest. He reached his enormous hand towards it, but the god backed away before his fingers could touch its surface. “Then what is that thing?”

“A thing she is not.” Gwyndolin said, and despite his anger, his voice immediately mellowed when he looked at the shell of the unhatched spawn. “Her sister. My sister.”

Smough’s mocking expression disappeared, and for the first time, he looked at the egg with serious attention.

“Lord Gwyn and Seath the Scaleless.” Smough said, his disdainful tone back to his voice. “I wonder how many more of their dirty little secrets are still carefully guarded behind the walls of this cursed land.”

Smough laughed.

“It’s safe to assume it was not your father who preserved the existence of this unborn chimera, was he? It was all the work of Seath. Alas, poor scaleless dragon. Such a shame almighty lord Gwyn shared not his love for their crossbred spawns.”

“Aim your resentment at me as you have done all this time, Smough, but I will not let you speak that way about my sister.”

“I do not see what damage my words can do. It’s not as if the crossbred could hear me.”

“But this baby can.” Gwyndolin looked down swiftly at the egg in his arms before returning his piercing glare at Smough. “And once she hatches, she will remember everything you said to her while she was in this state. Do you really want this child to be born into the world hating you because of your cruel words, Smough?”

“I couldn’t care less about what a crossbred thinks of me, no matter how royal.” Smough sneered. “And what makes you think that creature will hatch? Do not fool yourself, Gwyndolin. A long time has passed since that age, and no amount of Seath’s magic would be enough to keep this spawn alive inside its egg for so long. Get rid of this thing and forget about your family already. They are either death or gone. They don’t matter anymore.”

“Wise advice indeed. I’ll be sure to follow it once you have done the same with my father’s four knights.” Gwyndolin replied, his words as sharp and effective as a stab in the back.

Smough did not know how he kept himself from crushing the god with a single blow of his fist, and Gwyndolin gave him no time to recover from the poisonous and barbed taunt he had thrown at him.

“I’ll find a way to make sure this girl is born into the world, Smough. Yorshka shall be her name. She will be known as my sister, a true and legitimate daughter of Gwyn. And you shall serve her as her royal protector and guardian, sir Smough. You still are, after all, the only true knight standing in Anor Londo.”

Smough was left speechless.

How long had it been since Gwyndolin had given him an order?

And now that he had finally invoked Smough’s almost forgotten status as his knight, it was only to condemn him to a fate of guarding and babysitting some crossbred spawn.

“Well then,” Smough finally said, regretting having approached Gwyndolin and starting the conversation in the first place, “I’ll be sure to not prepare for those future duties, for we both know that no creature will ever hatch from that rotten egg.”

“She will.” Gwyndolin replied defiantly as Smough left him by himself. “You’ll see.”

* * *

“Smough?”

Smough had no doubts about it.

Gwyndolin had made sure to be successful only to spite him.

“Smough.”

Gods had a wicked sense of humor.

Smough had always found amusing to see some poor bastards being vanquished or cursed by a god or goddess’s voluble whims, but now that he had been the target of one of their jests, he no longer found the thing so entertaining.

Not at all.

“Smough!”

“What? What do you want?” he snapped at the girl. “I’m not deaf, you silly child, so stop your yapping this very instant or I’ll turn you into a pulp with a smash of my hammer.”

Yorshka did not recoil at his threat at all. Instead, she folded her arms and frowned at him, her scaly eyebrows glittering under the pale sun of Anor Londo.

It was like looking at a tiny version of Gwyn and Seath.

_Poor child. Well, at least she is healthy._

Smough thought, chuckling faintly to himself.

“You were ignoring me.” Yorshka complained, pouting so much that her words came out more as mumbling. “I asked you a question, but you didn’t even look at me.”

“Well, maybe if you asked more interesting questions, I wouldn’t be so easily distracted, would I? By the bloody gods... ask the stupid question again, girl. Hurry, before I retreat into the happy place inside my memories, back when I was a true warrior and not some glorified babysitter.”

“You are weird, Smough.” Yorshka giggled.

She was such a clueless child.

Smough wondered if her sister Priscilla had been the same.

_Maybe it’s a thing among crossbreds._

Slowly, Yorshka regained a more serious semblance.

“The other day, I was reading a book brother Gwyndolin gave to me. It was about my father and his four royal knights.”

“Girl, we’ve been through this many times before.” Smough replied, rolling his eyes, and resting his back against a column of stone as he stared at the fake sun. “The knights that served your father were all a bunch of cowardly hacks. None was truly worthy of their rank; they were vile, deceitful and petty scum... and so very envious of my superior prowess and skill. And in their resentment—”

“They poisoned father’s mind against you, making sure you were never able to join them. This is the true tale of the knights of Gwyn, but no author was brave enough to register history as it truly happened, for they were too afraid of inciting the anger of the foul four knights.” Yorshka finished for Smough, and his protector smiled proudly at her.

“Exactly.” Smough was proud of himself too. He never would have guessed he was such a good tutor nor that Yorshka could be a good learner, but the girl had her qualities, no matter how hidden they could be. “And don’t you ever forget it or question it, no matter what your brother or your silly books say. Promise?”

“Promise.” Yorshka assented fervently, shaking one of Smough’s fingers as signal of their pact. “But the question I wanted to ask you is not about the foul four knights. It’s about you.”

Smough felt how his sense of peace and relaxation was shaken to its very core.

He kept his semblance neutral, however, and acted as if Yorshka’s statement was nothing worth noting.

“What do you know? It’s good to hear that at least one of those useless historians remembered to mention something about Smough the great. A man of culture this historian was, without a doubt. If he wasn’t long dead, I would shake his hand.”

“The book said you enjoyed eating other people’s bones.” Yorshka continued. “That you were a sadistic and ruthless cannibal.”

The absolute lack of fear in her voice and her natural childish tone made her statements sound twice as dreadful.

Smough stared at her, expecting to find nothing but repulsion in her face, but Yorshka simply looked at him as she always did, with endless and naïve curiosity. 

“Are they tasty?” Yorshka insisted, childishly unrelenting. “Are pulverized bones really so sweet, Smough?”

Smough thought of running away and leave Yorshka behind.

He wanted to be away from her, away from the memory of the practices that had only earned him the scorn and hatred of knights and gods alike.

“Smough?”

“They are not, girl.” Smough said, mustering his courage after remembering he was a knight. He couldn’t allow his past and some little girl to scare him

What would the four knights of Gwyn say if they could see him cowering in fear from a tiny goddess?

“Then why?” Yorshka asked. “Why did you eat them?”

“Let’s go back to your brother.”

Smough started walking. He did not look behind to see if Yorshka was following him.

The young goddess stood still for a moment, wondering if she had said something wrong and if Smough was angry with her.

Eventually, she went after Smough, and never again she brought up the subject.

Smough was her friend.

Her only friend besides brother Gwyndolin.

The least she wanted was for him to be angry with her.

Perhaps writing a small poem about how dreadful the foul four knights had truly been was a good way to lift his mood.

Her dragon-like tail waved happily at the thought as she caught up with her strange but funny guardian.

* * *

“You are sick.”

“As always, your moral support is greatly appreciated, Smough.”

“No, Gwyndolin.” Smough took a step close to the god. “You are sick.”

Gwyndolin stopped picking up the mess of books and papers Yorshka had left behind. The little crossbred goddess was not so little anymore, but her childish behaviors were still quite present.

The god looked at Smough with a gentle and sad smile on his lips.

His hair had grown long and brittle, like the threads of an old silk carpet.

“Don’t tell Yorshka, Smough.”

“Since when?” Smough inquired. “What is your ailment?”

“Don’t tell Yorshka.”

“She knows, Gwyndolin. She knows.”

* * *

The invasion had been swift, effective, and successful.

The infectious and ruthless hand of Sulyvahn had finally reached Anor Londo.

Smough had fought valiantly against his forces, but not even his strength nor that of the illusory knights of Gwyndolin had been enough to keep the tyrant away.

The strategy had not been deployed randomly.

Somehow, Sulyvahn had known how much Gwyndolin’s sickness had diminished his godly powers.

All that was needed to subjugate the former home of gods was a well-organized attack.

He had been calculating, and now, he was victorious.

Smough, on his knees and with his hands joined together behind his back with a magic pair of handcuffs, glared at Sulyvahn as the now self-proclaimed pontiff looked at him, Gwyndolin and Yorshka as if they were pigs about to be sacrificed.

In a cruel gesture, Yorshka had not been allowed near Gwyndolin. The god, too frail and weakened both by his illness and the harsh treatment of Sulyvahn, could only comfort his sister with his voice as she clung to Smough’s armored arm instead.

She did not cry.

She was brave.

Smough felt proud of her.

And he felt proud of Gwyndolin too.

If only he could feel proud of himself, after failing so miserably in his duty once more.

“Take the girl.” Sulyvahn ordered to his soldiers. “She is now my prisoner.”

“Smough.” Yorshka whispered weakly at the impeding doom that loomed over her, her slender fingers clawing the plates of his armor.

“Worry not, girl.” Sulyvahn said, in a paternal tone that sounded no different than Gwyn’s. “No one will harm you. I just need a moment alone with your brother and guardian. You’ll be together again soon; you have my word.”

“But—”

“It’s alright, Yorshka.” Gwyndolin said. His gentle voice had an immediate calming effect on Yorshka, and in Smough too. The two of them looked at him, and Gwyndolin, as beaten, defeated, and surrounded by Sulyvahn’s soldiers as he was, still found the strength necessary to smile. “I will be fine. This will all pass soon, and once it’s all over, we shall meet you again and be forever by your side. I promise.”

Yorshka tried to speak.

Her lips quivered, but still she contained her tears.

Yet, she couldn’t let go of Smough.

A particularly anxious soldier, deluded enough to think his actions would have no consequences, or perhaps too desperate to look good in front of his master, dared to grab Yorshka by the arm and pull her away from her royal protector.

The movement was brusque, and it made Yorshka grunt in discomfort.

Smough did not need any more reasons.

Power and strength ran through his body like fire. The magic handcuffs could not contain him, and they broke and vanished into thin air.

It happened too quickly for anyone to stop him, not even Sulyvahn.

The bastard soldier that had hurt Yorshka did not have time to look over his shoulder and see how death came for him in the form of Smough, the executioner.

A pair of gigantic hands grabbed him by the torso.

Smough pressed his thumbs against his backbone and ripped the man in half. A shower of fractured bones and shredded organs rained upon the horrified onlookers. Some screamed like children, some gasped in disgust, but none remained indifferent to the spectacle Smough had offered them.

Smough grinned in satisfaction.

How he enjoyed the looks of fear and dread those pathetic soldiers directed at him.

It wasn’t enough.

Their fear was not great enough.

They needed to suffer more.

They had to pay for what they had done.

They needed to know who they were dealing with.

Smough needed their acknowledgement.

He needed their respect.

It was the only way to salvage what little remained of his broken honor.

With that thought fueling his actions, Smough discarded one half of the soldier and held the other with both hands.

Gwyndolin screamed an order, but Smough ignored him.

Once he made sure all eyes were on him, Smough opened his jaw and took a bite of the exposed entrails that hung limply from the soldier’s tattered stomach.

The meat was juicy and warm, like that of a young dear only lightly seared.

Then, the flavor hit him.

It almost made him gag.

It was the first time Smough savored human flesh, and no amount of pulverized bones could have prepared him for the bizarre taste that now filled his entire mouth and buds.

He swallowed the bite, no matter how much his throat rejected the nourishment, and licked his bloodied lips before exposing his crimson teeth in a cruel, deranged smile.

“You have not defeated me! I am Smough, a true knight of Anor Londo! Never again will I fall at the hands of pathetic creatures such as you!” he exclaimed as the soldiers, incited by Sulyvahn, slowly snapped out of their trance and lunged themselves at Smough.

Sulyvahn gave the order to restrain him, not to kill him.

A stupid move, for it hindered the attacks of his men, allowing Smough to kill dozens of them in his bloodthirsty frenzy.

It took Sulyvahn’s direct interference to finally stop him. He slammed Smough’s head against the floor and trapped his hands with a new pair of magic shackles, much stronger and resistant than the former.

“You truly are a monster, executioner Smough. A savage glutton.” Sulyvahn whispered in his ear. He sounded entertained, almost excited by the violence he had witnessed. “No wonder lord Aldrich admired you so much.”

Smough felt how all his energy and rage abandoned him. His belly arched and spasmed wildly until the chunk of meat he had swallowed was forced out of his body through his mouth.

“He always wanted to meet you in person.” Sulyvahn said in a whisper. “And soon, he will.”

A magic blow forced Smough into unconsciousness.

The last thing he saw before everything disappeared was the terrified and blood-stained face of Yorshka as she was taken away by a couple of soldiers.

She was scared of her captors, but not as much as she was of her former guardian.

_I failed._

Smough lamented as he watched how his entire world crumbled down.

* * *

“Lord Aldrich once said how he owed it all to you, that he would have never become the man he was had it not been by your influence.” Sulyvahn said as the slimy and fetid blob began to engulf Smough’s legs. “He has lost his ability to speak, but I know that, right now, as he nourishes his holy body with your flesh and bones, he is thanking you, Smough. For him, there is no greater honor than to devour the cannibal he adored and worshiped all his life.”

The tyrant laughed with all the power of his lungs. His cackle echoed across the walls of the empty cathedral. Only Smough and Gwyndolin were there to hear it.

Smough tried to move his head so he could see the sickly god, but he was too weak and damaged to move even a finger, but he did listen to Gwyndolin’s wheezing breathings as he called his name and title.

“Sir Smough...” Gwyndolin repeated in an endless chant. “Sir Smough...”

“My lord.” Smough breathed out just as the abomination known as Aldrich reached his chest and destroyed his torso with the acidic pressure of his disgusting slime.

His armor was no barrier for the tarnishing touch of the sludge, and it melted as easily as his skin and blood.

“You fought well, executioner.” Sulyvahn said, pretending to be translating Aldrich’s sounds into words. “Do not be afraid, you shall exist forever as part of me, and when the new age is finally here, you shall come with us to the deep end of the dark sea.”

Aldrich reached his neck, and a second later, he consumed Smough’s exposed face.

_Gough, Ciaran, Artorias, Sif, Lord Gwyn._

Death began to infiltrate to the core of his very soul, tainting it with a definite and everlasting end.

_Ornstein._

Smough at first thought of the knights and god he had spent his whole life trying to impress, as if trying to justify his worth before them one last time.

It made him feel empty and unfulfilled, and it was not until the very last second that his stubborn mind became purified by the images of Gwyndolin and Yorshka, the gods he had dutifully served, not out of a vacuous need to prove something.

Smough had done so out of an honest wish of his heart.

_This is my truth. It’s not an illusion. It never was._

Aldrich swallowed him whole.

Smough dissapeared from the world, leaving no trace of his existance other than his hammer.

And also, a dream.

A dream that came to Aldrich every now and then.

A dream where a group of knights and a couple of gods smiled at him.

And welcomed him with open arms.


End file.
